There isn’t a speck of air in my lungs
that did not come from you. Every sunrise

is your sunrise. You are that pre-dawn sky,
that swift chink of marvel when clouds

and air and sky and wind make a mess of colors
just beyond names. It feels something like

peace welded. It is a horrible truth that the moon
must die for the sun to rise. You are the sun.

You are the moon. You are every pedal
of those defiant scorning the snow

this late-winter morning. When the sun sets,
you are the light behind each star.

This is your sky. These are your daffodils.
There isn’t a wind I feel that isn’t your wind.